‘So wot, clot?’ he retort, litely.
‘Clearly you do not realise the importance of wot hav taken place. They are going to test child cyclists. They are going to give us weedy little badges if we pass and if we fale – you will never guess, peason. i canot bring myself to tell you.’
‘Go on, molesworth, o you mite.’
‘L-Plates,’ i whisper.
Small wonder that peason grow pale benethe wot is his tan (i hope) Do not get me wrong, brothers and sisters, I am all for Road Safety ect becos it seme to me that the roads are v. dangerous places, especially when you see how GRIMES (headmaster) and SIGISMUND THE MAD MATHS MASTER drive their cranky old grids. But TESTS for veterans like me who have been awheel since my first fairy cycle at the age of 4! Curses! I know wot it will mean it will only be something more for me to fale becos the only thing i hav ever passed is molesworth 2 on his bike at mach. 1.
Wot with this and the 11 plus it seme that brave noble and fearless children are never going to be left alone until they become fearless metallurgists, clump press minders ect. You can imagine how it all hapened.
Time: 1839.
Scene: the headmaster’s studdy at No. 10 Downing Street. A kabinet meeting is in progress and GRIMES the prime minister is in the chair — altho i do not hardly think you could hav expekted him to be sitting on the floor.
GRIMES: There’s one more thing, gents, and strate i don’t kno wot we’re going to do about it. A scotish blacksmith called kirkpatrick macmillan hav invented a thing he call a bicycle.
THE MINISTER OF AGRICULTURE AND FISHERIES: Gosh!
GRIMES: Two wheels joined together with a bar and a saddle on top. Wheels within wheels ha-ha!
ALL: That’s joly funny, sir. Ha-Ha!
GRIMES: Wheel, wheel, I’m glad you think so!
ALL: That’s funy, too ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
GRIMES: He must be a wheel proper inventer.
ALL: Stop it, sir, you’re killing us!
GRIMES: All’s wheel!
(The Ministers disolve in fits of faned larffter. GRIMES strike the table with his kane.)
GRIMES: That’s enuff. It’s not as funy as all that. The point is – wot are we going to do about it?
THE MINISTER OF TRANSPORT: We must hav action!
ALL (thundering): Action! Action!
GRIMES: Wot action are we to take?
THE MINISTER OF TRANSPORT: There’s only one thing. We must set up a working party to report on the problem.
ALL: He’s got it!
The P.M. get up, and shake him warmly by the hand: a decanter of port bursts like an H-Bomb, 6 topp hats sale into the air, the fr hav had it, the Gauls are at the gates of rome, Wellington hav got his boots off, all’s well with the world.
THE MINISTER OF AGRICULTURE AND FISHERIES: (chortling): Wheel, wheel! That’s really v. witty. Wheel, wheel!
The future of the BICYCLE is still at stake.
We pass now from this unsavoury episode from the hist. books (and how many, let’s face it, there are, how many) to the present day. This is the age of elektronick branes, of deisel-electrick locos, of atommick power stations ect, ect: all these added to the ink darts, kanes, lat. grammers, headmasters, boys and beasts which have been going for a long time. Wot hav been going on in the meantime? The working party is still on the job and the future of the BICYCLE is still at stake. Now, indeed, it is more at stake than ever for they have come to consider the report on st. custard’s, my dere old skool hurrah hurrah hem-hem. Here is the report:
C/3342/MG/(357. st. custard’s. Behaviour of skolars and tiny tots on bicycles.
Our spies hid in the bushes for weeks and were really upset by the spiders which did their best to hinder their observations. (We refer to the spies observations, not the spiders.) Wot our spies did observe was disstressing. i.e.
(a) One youth with pink bike, underslung handlebars, crash helmet, waterbotle, speedo, full tool kits detachable wheels ect ect. He appered to be known as grabber, head of the skool, wet, weed, sneke, monkey-face, owing to the strukture of his machine this youth rode with his nose near the ground and his hem-hem in conjunktion with the planet jupiter. He semed to hav contempt for those around him. We recomend L-Plates.
(b) A small boy of elfin appearance who employed a fairy cycle. His golden locks streamed in the breeze and he kept saing ‘Hello clouds! Hullo, sky!’ L-Plate recommended.
(c) molesworth 2 who zoom about on his bicycle with nose on the handlebars at 90 m.p.h. When questioned he repli that he is the last of the manned fighters and hav just brought down a guided missile.
(d) But who is this brave, staunch fellow who hav just finished oiling his machine? He mount, he ride steadily, he look left, right, left ect., he sound his bell, he is the pikture of quiet control. Who is it, eh? It is me, molesworth 1.
Well, there you are chiz. It isn’t a state of affairs I am looking forward to but i supose if we had all ridden our bikes better in the past we shouldn’t hav to go through all this now. If we all behave ourselves and do not zoom down hills they may set up another working party to consider whether fairy badges and L-Plates are not bosh and worth o. That at least is something to work for. Honk, honk, tinkle-tinkle and ho, for the wide open road. WITH YORE EYES OPEN.
Fr. and english are divided by more than the chanel.
FR. AND ENGLISH
You kno the trubble with paters and maters chiz, and particularly maters is that they are always trying to improve their dere little chicks. Hence the numerous corektions which we all kno at home i.e. you hav to hold yore knife properly, not make treakle pools in poridge, get clene hankerchiefs and take off yore hat to mrs Jenkins ect. If you do all these things you will grow up to be as good a man as yore pater tho this statement makes your mater look a bit thortful.
Behold, then, the scene at ye olde molesworth brekfast table when there come the chereful rat-tat of the postman’s knock.
‘That’s the postman,’ sa the molesworths all together, for they are a brilliant family and full of branes hem-hem.
‘Go and get the letters, nigel dere.’
‘Wot me? Me? Why shouldn’t molesworth 2 get them i got them the last time did didn’t did ect.’ (We don’t kno why children go on like that but they do i am afrade.)
Eventually after this unsemely debate of which we ort to be thoroughly ashamed i do not think the letters arive at the table amongst the swete smell of korn flakes, marmalade ect.
‘Ah!’ sa yore mater. ‘Here it is.’
She hold aloft a weedy letter written in purple ink with a fr. stamp which is not worth a d. as a swop.
‘Armand is coming to sta with us in the hols,’ she sa.
‘Who, pray, is armand,’ i repli, dealing a mitey blow to my hard-boiled egg. ‘As far as i kno he is the weedy wet in the fr. book who sa the elephants are pigs.’
‘He is a fr. boy who is coming to us to learn eng.,’ sa mater with a swete patient smile. ‘And you are to be v. nice to him as the pore boy will be far from home ect.’
Well, you can immagine wot any noble british boy would sa to that i.e. o no, mater, must we, gosh, wot a chiz ect. but it is no use. It is not any good pointing out that ‘chez molesworth’ he may learn a lot of things but one of them won’t be eng. We kno when we are licked.
Interval of 3 weeks. Then ARMAND arive you can well immagine him only he is worse than anything you can immagine.
Armand is 6 ft tall, wear short pants, and look upon molesworth 2 et moi as if we were a pare of shoppkeepers (c.f. napoleon in the hist, books). The trubble is he can speke eng.
‘So ziz is yore owse?’ he sa, glancing around with amusement.
‘Oui, oui,’ molesworth deux et moi.
‘Eet eez so pretty.’
‘Exquisitely so,’ sa molesworth deux.
‘My parents have a chateau, a flat in paris, a villa in the s. of fr. and a rolls-royce. Zizz is all you posess?’
‘We have also a pen, a piece of india ruber, un morceau de papier, a
cranky old car and a bag of bulls-eyes, my little cabage,’ we repli. And with this riposte we zoom away into the bushes.
Things do not look good for the future chiz and mater is very cross with us ect. for our cruel and unfeeling behaviour but when she see wot armand eat she change her tune. Armand, in fakt, eat more than molesworth 2 and that is saing a v. grate deal: also we do not seme to like cotage pie, bread and butter pudding, spotted dick, corned beef and other kinds of homely food. He always zoom up to vilage shop on his bike and come back with pokets stuffed with food chiz which he eat all himself it nearly drive molesworth 2 mad.
‘Last nite,’ armand sa, ‘i am having a beautiful dream.’
Wot can it be about? Hav he routed the beaks, stolen GRIMES the headmaster’s kane, pinched ye old matrone’s gin, placed a sukkessful booby trap on the door of the master’s common room. No, it is none of these things which would delite the heart of the healthy english boy. Armand hav dreamed of fresh pineaple, lobsters, duck, sweet, cheese, fruit, cream, three wines and a brandy. Well, i mean to say, wot a thing to dreme about! Anyway, give me a good suck at a tin of condensed milk every time.
Anyway, he like GURLS aussi, so something must be wrong. Anyone who can get on his bike and ride 10 miles to meet angela winterbottom becos he kno she must pass along the lane on her pony must be bats, i supose i could manage lobsters but not angela winterbottom who giggle all the time and is uterly wet. It seme, konklude the grate sage molesworth, that fr. and english are divided by more than the chanel.
Guide to Grown–ups
Beware of addults, whether parents or beaks. They hav only one wish i.e. to make noble upright boys like them chiz. And look at them! Wot a lot, eh?
And here are the prizes for all the boys who hav not got prizes…
At least st. custard’s turns out a finished product.
Mensam!…Yes, you’ve got it, Blatworthy!
I want you to regard this as a chalenge, molesworth.
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, mogley-howard one.
Look, boys, here’s Cecily come to tea.
I’ve no objection to him having a good hiding now and then.
MOLESWORTH TAKES OVER
Gosh chiz here’s a fine state of afairs, eh? I mean, look at the world it is worse than big skool after one of our super rags full of broken desks (finest chippendale hem-hem i don’t think), cries of ‘you didn’t,’ did, didn’t ect, the fluff from a million pillows and all the beetles taking refuge in the master’s desk which is a poor place to choose, seeing it is full of empty beer bottles and catterpults they hav confiskated from the gallant boy fighters.
Wot would everyone say if we skoolboys behaved like the nations of the globe? I will tell you. They would sa we were stupid, crass, ignorant, hopeless, wet, weedy and sans un clue. And yet it still go on. It is time i took over. I can see it all.
Scene: A tent in Gaul, guarded with fossis and rampartibus maximus fortissimus. Labienus, Cotta, Balbus, Hanibul, Caesar, Hasdrubel and various other weeds are listening to the sweet voices of the gurls.
HANIBUL: (at length) gosh, wot a din it is somethink awful. How is the generalissimo toda?
CAESAR: In a filthy bate. He hav been ever since he turned good and gave up smoking. He is not the molesworth who put 99 consekutive subjects in the acc.
(A flourish of trumpets. Enter Generalissimo molesworth with an old coal bucket on his tawny locks. His breath is coming in short ha-ha hee-hee you hav guessed it and he is dressed in the same.)
ALL: (acclaming) Ave, dux!
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: And the best of luck. Wot is the situation? Does anybody kno? Put me in the piktchah. G.1?
G.1: i was hoping you would put me in the piktchah, sirra.
G2 to G99: (in sukcession) same here, old top.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: oh. Carry on, then.
BRITANNICUS, A DIRTY OLD SLAVE: If i may be permitted a word, sir, the situation is quite intolerable. Porridge Court hav cocked snooks at us, spoken foully of GRIMES, our revered headmaster, called us cowardly custardians and threaten our very existence by pinching our plaing fields. They hav also attacked the ditches with javelins and spears. It really is a tremendously bad show.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: File a complante with uno as ushaual. Who’s for conkers?
(The sweet voices of the gurls brake out agane. The generalissimo starteth.)
Gosh, blime, i can’t stand this. We march aganst porridge court! Sound the trumpets, wake the horses, prang the airports, charge ta-ran-ta-rah.
That is the beginning. Despite cries and lamentations from fotherington-tomas st. custard’s declare war on porridge court crying Pax. We must ensure there is Pax at all costs.
Scene: The same tent. Three months later.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: Aren’t we ready to move yet? Wot is the piktchah, G.1?
G.1: They are showing marylyn monro oh-ho over the naafi, sirra. Deffinitely worth a trip.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: But didn’t we declare bellum? Declare it agane.
ALL: Bellum, bellum, bellum, belli, bello, bello.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: o.k. get cracking. Go in heah, heah and heah. Let me kno sometime how the battle goes.
G.1: O.k. sirra we will bring up the engines.
GENERALISSIMO MOLESWORTH: You don’t need engines. You want catterpults. Engines pull tranes: they are 4-6-2 and 4-4-0 ect. Oh, i see. You are referring to ballista, like ensa, the siege engine? Why didn’t you sa so?
(Silence except for the sweet voices of the gurls.)
And so the mitey forces of st. custard’s move relentlessly in and occupy a small corner of the plaing fields. The lamentations of fotherington-tomas, who is a gurlie become louder and louder: then uno, the county council and the ratepayers association call for a cease fire. We obay.
Scene: A t.v. screen with the face of Generalissimo molesworth, blubbing.
G. MOLESWORTH: My frends, it is only in a case of national emergency that i would dare to interrupt robin hood. I come to explane the position we are in. It is grim. The skool playing field is vital to our existence. The plaing field must be free for us to come and go, freely. Where else could we be beaten 12 to nil by the village oiks, eh? Now we hav attained our objectives. The plaing fields hav been blown up by porridge court saing yar-boo and sucks. This will mean hardship. Skool sossages will be rationed, skool cheese cut by fifty per cent and lessons will continue all day. There will be less buble gum and if there ever had been any sugar that would hav been abolished too. However, it will be a mater for satisfacktion that the full supply of prunes will be maintaned. good evening.
And wot hapen then? uno, the county council and the ratepayers association anounce that they are making a police force. They sa they are giving themselves TEETH. This is a funny thing for any one to give himself but there it is. And of wot is the police force composed? It is made up as folows:
1 regiment of mice.
fotherington-tomas.
3 tree rats (with pea shooters).
christopher robin.
The 5th brigade of rabbits.
andy-pandy.
the skool dog.
Well, there you are. There hav to be a first time and this is the best they can do and, as for us wizard chaps, it prove something i.e. when we grow up we will be able to make even a bigger mess than this. So are we downharted? NO. We would not want to be anyone else. So boo to everybody and play up US!
THRO’ HORRIDGES WITH GRAN
‘I have been dealing here for 30 years,’ sa gran to the assistant at horridges stores. ‘Send for mr beckwith at once.’
Tremble, tremble quake quake how can she speke to an Assistant in the sossage dept. like that? i mean he is a perfect gent and wear striped trousis ect unlike headmaster GRIMES and other beaks we could mention and i would never dreme of ragging him. Wot will he do? To my surprise he bow low until his nose almost go wam on the sossage counter.
‘Certainly, madam,’ he sa.
>
End of part 1 now for the commercials, also query wot will happen when mr beckwith arive, eh? i am not a funk (cries of o, no, molesworth i do not think, may you be struck ded ect.) i am the goriller of 3B yet i confess that i xperience a feeling of wishing to slink away and examine a nearby bakon machine. i have a feeling that mr beckwith if he arive at all will take out a gat and shoot gran to the ground, i begin to move when there is a stern cry i.e. nigel, stay where you are! There is no escape we will hav to shoot it out.
Perchance, molesworth, i sa to myself, mr beckwith will decide not to se gran? Perchance he will not obay this imperious summons?
Not a hope, mr beckwith arive who is a kindly old man with silver hair. He is just the sort of customer to whip out a Colt and go BANG! BANG! Got you! before the sherif of dodge city can inform him that killing is WRONG. But, surprise, he also bow low to gran who fix him with an eye of steel.
‘mr beckwith,’ sa gran, ‘i have been dealing with horridges for 30 yrs. You are aware of that?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘I have here my dere grandson, nigel, the pride and aple of my eye. He is a child of grate gifts, sensitive and inteligent, a fine young gentleman.
‘Observe his noble brow, his blue eyes, the aristokratick maner in which he stands.’
i mene, i sa, this is a bit much. Enuff is as good as a feast the way gran go on I mite be fotherington tomas. It is about time that mr beckwith tell the truth and state that i hav a face like a squished tomato. But he bow even lower.
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